


I Love My Girl (But She Ain’t Worth the Price)

by hellborn



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: 2007 frank hair for flashback, Aggression, Alcohol, Anal Sex, Bottom Gerard Way, Burning Bodies, Couch Sex, Crying, Detoxing, Drugs, Drunk Sex, Emotional Sex, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Inspiration from the song happy pills by weathers, M/M, Parties, Ray guns, Recovery, Rimming, Smut, Suicide (bad ending), Suicide Attempts, Swearing, Sythetic Emotions Drug (idk), Those fucking skin-tight jeans, Top Frank Iero, Trans Am, Van Days (flashback), Violence, and also from that video jyuu made, danger days, happy pills, just picture they both have really long greasy dark hair ok, mentally unstable, sometimes gerard needs it up the ass ok, sucide aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-06-09 01:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15256263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellborn/pseuds/hellborn
Summary: “Frankie,” Party says again and Ghoul freezes, registering the name. After years of knowing the other man, Ghoul has quickly learned that Party is either one of two things. He only calls him by that name now when they’re having sex or when he’s in a horrible state of mind. Judging by the fact Party’s long, worn artist’s fingers aren’t wrapped around his cock, this time, it’s the latter.(inspo & title from "happy pills" by weathers)





	1. “Good” Ending

**Author's Note:**

> i'm alive, ok, look writer's block is a bitch.
> 
> ps, i wrote this partially bc of this video https://youtu.be/e0kk0W-C55s

“Frank? Frankie?” Ghoul opens his eyes and blinks a couple times, slowly adjusting to the surrounding darkness. If he squints, he can just faintly see the messy outline of Party’s hair. 

“Party? You ok, baby?” He sits up and stretches a little bit. 

“Frankie,” Party says again and Ghoul freezes, registering the name. After years of knowing the other man, Ghoul has quickly learned that Party is either one of two things. He only calls him by that name now when they’re having sex or when he’s in a horrible state of mind. Judging by the fact Party’s long, worn artist’s fingers aren’t wrapped around his cock, this time, it’s the latter. That’s never a good sign. When Party crashes, he fucking crashes. It’s been happening more and more now. It hasn’t been this often, this bad, for a long, long time. Since he went cold turkey.

He pulls Party into his arms and laces a hand through his dirty, greasy, dye-damaged hair. If he closes his eyes (not that it’s necessary with how little light is being let into the room) he can almost imagine that BL/ind isn’t even the smallest of thoughts, the band’s still going strong and he’s sleeping curled close to Gerard in the backseat of that old pungent van. But that was so long ago. So long. It gets harder to pretend with every passing day. Every new scar. Every near-death experience permanently branded into brains.

Party’s muttering against his chest and Ghoul can’t really tell what he’s saying, but he knows better than to ask. After a while, Party goes quiet and Ghoul knows it’s his turn now, 

“Gee?” He says softly; the dead name feels thick on his tongue. Heavy with emotions. “Talk to me, let it all out.” Ghoul keeps his voice low and soothing, perfect for overly-sensitive ears and migraine-prone brains to receive. 

And Party does, in between broken sobs and hiccups and hands clutching tight against the skin of Ghoul’s back. Ghoul’s thankful he took off his shirt before going to bed, only hours before, because if he hadn’t it would be completely drenched by Party’s anguish-soaked tears.

“Frankie, I don’t feel good, I feel really, really bad. Like I’m gonna throw up out of every opening on my body, but at the same time I feel so fucking empty like there’s nothing inside me like I’m just skin that’s somehow upright and functioning on its own. I c-can’t, I can’t live like this anymore, I-I not anymore, it’s too much. . .” 

It’s all so familiar. So, so horribly fucking familiar.

-

“Ah, fuck, shit, shit, ah, God, fuck.” Gerard groans as he stumbles down the stairs, he clutches his aching head and makes his way over to the couch where Frank’s laying, somewhere in between drunk and sober and half-watching an old horror movie on a television that had to be at least double his age. 

He looks up to see Gerard and holds his arms out as he smiles sadly with half of his mouth. 

Gerard falls, deadweight, partially on Frank’s side and partially on the rest of couch and starts talking. Gerard likes to talk, a lot. No matter the situation. That never changes. Frank’s skilled hands run over Gerard’s sweat-soaked shirt that smells of cigarette smoke, booze and pot. 

The party pounds and thrums loudly from upstairs and Frank’s substance-altered brain tries to pay attention to what Gerard’s saying, 

“. . .I fucking hate relying on pills and booze. .being drunk and getting high. . . And just to be happy. I keep telling myself that, Frankie. I keep telling myself that they’re making me happy but are they really? It’s all synthetic and fake! It feels like I’m incapable of emotions like happiness without the drugs. Like the world's too toxic and poisonous to be sober in. . . And that’s the thing. . . I don’t think I can go sober. But I can’t stay like this, I-I need out” He’s crying now and some of his words are unintelligible and inaudible.

“If you’re committed to doing this, Gerard, then we’re gonna fucking do it. I promise you, there are things that are worth getting clean for. Things worth staying alive for. Your life, Gee, your life can be anything you want it to be! Everyone’s given a life. It’s what you do with it that matters, you know that, I know you know that. And look at all you’ve done so far! All those kids, you encourage them to persevere through all the shit they have to get through to be happy and get better. You’ve saved so many lives, do you know that? If you can save all their lives, then surely you can save your own?” Frank cups the side of the other's jaw fondly.

Gerard blinks up at Frank, long black hair shiny with sweat and grease, then climbs on top of him, eyes big and red-rimmed and full of lust and desire and hopefulness. “You always know what to say.” He whispers. 

Hot sweaty hands cup Frank’s flushed cheeks, “Fuck me, Frankie.” Gerard begs, mouthing at Frank’s neck wetly, “Fuck me. Make it better, please, I want to feel something, want you to make me feel.” He rolls his hips down and applies pressure with his teeth and suction with his lips. 

“Yeah, alright.” Frank pants, hands tracing down Gerard’s hips and under the waistband of those ridiculously tight black jeans to cup his ass. Gerard sighs and moans into Frank’s neck as the hands tighten and the body below his begins to respond more enthusiastically, thrusting back up against him, the friction of their clothed cocks delicious. 

This is far from the first time that they’ve had sex, (not established, but exclusive) but it’s always been the other way around. Frank loves getting fucked and Gerard loves fucking him. But it’s painfully obvious how much Gerard needs it right now and Frank’s not about to complain. 

As much as Frank loves how Gerard’s ass looks in the jeans, he really wishes they had Velcro as seams so they could be torn off. Frank knows they’re a bitch to get on just as much as they are to get off (he knows, he’s worn them). ((Clothes tend to get shared when you’re living in a van with a bunch of other guys)).

None of this muddles Frank’s determination and he’s flipped Gerard onto his back before popping the button and yanking the zipper. 

He balances on his knees over Gerard’s calves and, taking hold of the belt loops, Frank rips the pants off his hips and down his thighs. 

Bonus for the pants being so fucking tight, no underwear!

“Hell yeah.” Frank says and Gerard laughs, despite having been crying only minutes before. Frank thinks Gerard’s laugh is stupid but he loves hearing it because when it’s genuine like this, Gerard is happy. Not synthetically. Truly.

Frank peers up at Gerard and smiles through his own overgrown dark hair. 

By the time he’s finally got those damned pants off, Gerard’s got his shirt off and his hands up Frank’s, demanding the same. Frank is agreeable and willingly sheds it along with his loose torn up jeans. 

They’re both naked now, sweaty and pale, dark messy, dirty hair tousled. Frank’s ink stands out against his skin, a beautiful contrast. Gerard seems to think so too, hands rubbing and fingers tracing over the art. 

As their lips move against each other’s sloppily and determined, hair gets in their mouths, but that doesn’t matter. Gerard’s arms hold tightly to his lover’s body, moving desperately, seeking comfort and pleasure. 

Frank slides down along his jaw and neck to his chest, licking and sucking, whispering reassurances as he goes.

Gerard has moved his hands to Frank’s hair as the latter takes hold of his thighs and just goes right in, no holds barred, shoving his face between Gerard’s legs and eating him out. Gerard moans high-pitched and whorishly and Frank groans thickly into his ass at the noise. God, he’s been wanting to do this forever. 

There’s no lube, so saliva will have to suffice, and who’s to deny that they both have a little bit of a pain kink?

Frank moves up and engulfs Gerard’s dick, his cheeks hollowing with the suction, as his fingers move down to stretch him.

Gerard repeatedly thanks Frank through sobs and moans and hands petting and clutching and holding. 

Frank’s head hurts, the music upstairs and loud and the basement smells horrific (he thinks it’s the couch). Gerard’s smell has definitely been worse before but it doesn’t exactly help either. 

He sits up and knees his way over Gerard’s body to shove his cock past his lips. 

Resisting the urge to fuck his throat raw, Frank moves back down to Gerard’s still bent legs and grasps his hips, lining himself up. Gerard makes a panting sound at the feeling of the head of Frank’s cock against his hole. 

“Are you sure, baby?” Frank asks, leaning down to gently kiss the skin below Gerard’s ear. 

He nods, “Yeah.” 

Frank kisses his lips soundly and staying close, he readjusts his grip on Gerard’s hips and pushes in.

Another high- pitched moan escapes Gerard’s parted lips and Frank’s eyes roll into the back of his head. “Fuck. . .” 

Gerard is hot and slick and overwhelmingly tight, everything he dreamed of and more. But this isn’t about him. It’s about Gerard. 

He pulls out all but the crown and slams back in, pumping his hips hard and fast. 

Frank kisses Gerard’s face and neck and tells him over and over how good he feels and how much he loves him. Gerard keens and mewls and clings tightly to Frank with his arms and legs locked around him.

“Oh, Frankie!” Gerard cries, thrusting his hips up as he comes between their sweaty bodies, untouched. At his words, Frank looks to his face and comes immediately as he watches Gerard’s face scrunch and tighten as he finishes. Eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back, pale neck and jaw littered with hickies, dark hair sweat slick and mouth stretched around one last moan. 

Gerard’s legs fall to the couch with a thump, hands on Frank’s cheeks, fingers up through his hair. They pant, Frank’s hair hiding their faces from everyone but themselves. They smile.

-

“Gee, where’s this coming from?” He asks, scared of the response he’ll receive. 

He doesn’t get one. Party is silent. 

Ghoul holds Party’s face in his hands, “I’m going to ask you something and you have to promise me that you’ll answer.” Ghoul’s heart thumps painfully in his chest, realization settling low and heavy in his gut.

“Have you been drinking again?” It’s the only thing that makes sense, alcohol is rare in the zones, but not unable to acquire. 

“No.” Party says, but he hesitates afterwards. 

“What?” Ghoul chokes on his whisper.

“I-I’ve been taking these pills. . . When I was out on a supply run, I ran into another zonerunner. I-I knew her. From, from before. She gave me them, told me they h-helped manage emotions and stress and helped reflexes. I-I believed her, I was having an off d-day and they did help at first, they really did! And that’s how drugs usually are, then the dependency kicked in and. . . I’m just so fucking s-scared Frankie! I h-hardly managed to get out last time and now w-we’ve got a fucking war we’re fighting! I-I can’t fucking detox now—“

Ghoul cuts Party off with a firm kiss and finds the zipper of his jacket so he can strip it off of him. Pulling the blanket up to Party’s chin, he holds him tight and kisses him again. 

He strokes his hair, “Where are they?” He asks and Party cries some more before telling him. 

Ghouls shushes Party and holds him and kisses him until he falls into a fitful sleep. 

Reluctantly, he slides off of the cot and out of the room, navigating to another. He slips inside and falls to his knees, shaking a skinny form. 

“Kobra!” He hisses. “Kobra!” 

“Whatthefuckd’yawant?” Kobra slurs, batting at Ghoul’s hands. There’s more light in Kobra’s room and the elder can see the pure panic on Ghoul’s face. He sits up. 

“It’s Gerard,” He whispers, tears falling. 

“What? What the fuck happened?” Kobra makes to get up but Ghoul gets a grip on his arm and shakes his head. 

“He’s ok, he’s sleeping,” He shoves his hair out of his eyes and scrubs furiously at the tears. “He woke me up and he fuckin’ told me that he’s been taking some emotion supplements or some shit. And, fuck Mikey, it’s just like 2004 and he said about it being so hard then and now it’s going to be even worse because of this fucking war and I don’t know what to do I just fucking don’t and I’m absolutely terrified.” 

-

“Where’d you put them, Ghoul?” He wakes up to Party standing over him and shakes his head. 

“No, Party.” He says and Party’s hardened face stiffens. His jaw twitches. 

“I’m not playing around, where the fuck did you put them?” Party’s voice is cold and loud. 

“I’m not either, I said no.” Ghoul stands up and leaves the room, heart racing, teeth working over the skin inside his cheeks. 

Last night he and Kobra has taken one of the bikes out and buried the bottle deep down, praying they were doing the right thing. 

As he comes out into the main area of the diner, with the boothes, he thinks back to 2004. Gerard’s detox then had been hardly violent. He had cried, clawed at his skin until it bleed, thrown up, paced, slept, clung to Frank’s side one second and ignored him the next. It’s not the same thing he’s detoxing from, he tries to reassures himself, but he doesn’t quite feel reassured. 

Kobra is sitting across from Jet in a booth and Ghoul slips in beside him.

He doesn’t have time to say anything before the harsh sound of a door being slammed echos through the diner and heavy boots stomp down the hall. Ghoul clutches Kobra’s hand tight beneath the table. 

“I’m not going to pretend like this is funny because it fucking isn’t. I’m going to ask you one. More. Time. Where are they?” Party stands before the booth, fists clenched tightly at his sides. 

“No.” Ghoul says and Party’s eye twitches. Kobra’s hand tightens. 

Party hauls Ghoul up from the booth seat by his shirt and he drops Kobra’s hand. 

Ghoul swallows and feels the pulse of nausea and anxiety curling in his stomach. Their faces are very close and Ghoul can almost see him thinking. 

His eye twitches again and he drops Ghoul onto the floor and leaves quickly, the rumbling of the Trans Am starting up outside.

Kobra rushes to Ghoul’s side and helps him up. They join Jet at the window and watch the car speed off in a cloud of dust. 

Ghoul cries.

-

Ghoul wakes up to hands clamped tight on his biceps and immediately moves to throw his assailant off when the figure buries its face in Ghoul’s shoulder and muffled sobs are choked out. 

“Party?” Ghoul whispers, hand coming up tentatively to touch the back of his head. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Party’s voice is deadly quiet and miserable. His arms tighten around Ghoul. 

“Hey, hey, Gee, it’s alright, it’s ok. I’m not mad, ok? It’s not your fault. Everything’s gonna be ok, you’re gonna get better. It’ll all be fine, you’ll see.” 

The only response he gets is horrible sobbing cries, and this time it does soak his shirt. 

-

In the morning, when Ghoul wakes up, Party’s gone. He bends down to pick up his boots, hair falling into his face, and leaves the room. 

Kobra’s hunched over a can of untouched Power Pup, body visibly tense and on edge. He flinches violently when Ghoul places a hand on his shoulder. Kobra looks up. 

“Last night,” Ghoul says, “He woke me up, sobbing. He kept telling me he was sorry,” Ghoul voice catches and he goes quiet. 

Kobra nods, “He cried, hugged me. Told me he was sorry. Said he was a horrible big brother,” he looks away, eyeing the Power Pup, hands tight over the edge of the barstool. “I wish he could see himself the way I see him. He’s so strong.” 

“Car’s gone,” Jet says. Ghoul’s hand tightens on Kobra’s shoulder before he lets it fall and turns to face Jet. 

“He’ll be back,” Ghoul says. 

-  
Ghoul doesn’t sleep tonight. He sits on the steps of the diner, smoke curling from the end of his cigarette. He waits. 

Eventually, the car returns. Party gets out and sits down beside Ghoul. For a long time, neither talk, Ghoul lighting up his fourth and Party shivering beside him. 

Ghoul takes his hand and Party whispers, “You know I love you, right?” 

Ghoul blows out a stream of smoke and looks at Party, “Of course I do. I love you, too,” he narrows his eyes lightly and sticks his cigarette back into his mouth before taking hold of Party’s jaw and turning his head to look him in the eyes. “You aren’t gonna do anything stupid, are you?” He asks around the cigarette.

Party blinks once, twice, rapidly and his eyes dampen. He wipes his nose roughly with the back of his free hand and sniffs, “I--I don’t know what’s happening to me.” 

Ghoul pulls him close to his chest and squeezes his hand, he cries silently as Party cries noisily and painfully. He takes the cigarette with two finger and cups the back of Party’s head with the rest of his fingers and palm. He kisses his forehead and whispers into his damaged hair, “I love you so much, Gerard, you are so brave, so strong. You will get through this. I know you will.” 

-

When Ghoul wakes up in the morning, Party’s there, curled into his side. All messy red hair and faint snuffling snores, he looks a bit at peace. Ghoul’s heart twinges and he gently strokes the matted strands and pulls Party closer. 

-

When he wakes up, he’s upset but he stays. He busies himself working on the bike that broke down a week prior, the bright sun reflecting beams down to the hot sand beneath his boots. He stripps off his jacket and a sweaty sheen glimmers over his exposed skin, neck and ears tainted bright red from running dye. 

Ghoul crouches in a booth and watches him through the cracked glass of the broken window, the prickly churn of anxiety twisting in his lower stomach as a result of Party’s words the previous night. 

-

As the sky darkens and the sun lowers, Party lets Ghoul take him to bed. He shivers and cries but eventually sleeps, face in Ghoul’s chest, hands locked tight behind his back. 

-

Party works on the car the next day, bike up and running, and Ghoul watches once again. He turns and makes eye-contact through the window and smiles a little, beckoning him out with his curled hand. 

Ghoul slips out of the booth and pushes open the squeaky diner door, down the steps and up to Party, who’s still smiling that not-quite smile. 

Some hours later finds Ghoul bent over at the waist, elbows deep in the front of the car, hood popped. Party’s hands cup his hips and he jumps at bit provoking a soft laugh from Party as he turns around and raises a brow. 

“Turn around,” Party instructs and Ghoul obeys, not before fixing the other with a narrow-eyed gaze. Warm fingers gather Ghoul’s dark, unwashed hair into a tail high on his head, kept in place by a rubber band. A few strands fall around Ghoul’s face, too short to be held up by the band. 

Party’s hands wipe beaded sweat from Ghoul’s neck and shoulders before guiding him back around. He holds tight to Ghoul’s hips and his lips part and his head tilts to the side a little. Ghoul grins, arms sliding up ground Party’s own sweaty neck and meets him in the middle, lips brushing, gently at first. Ghoul sucks Party’s tongue into his mouth and tries to convey his love through his mouth. 

-

It’s three days of hopeful recovery before things spin rapidly downhill. 

He’s shaken awake by Kobra and pulled out of the room and down the hall, echoing shouts getting increasingly louder. 

“God fucking damnit, Jet!” and the sound of something shattering is all he hears before he and Kobra are witnessing Party beating the shit out of Jet, who’s hand is held high above his head with Party’s bright yellow gun tight tin his grasp. 

Ghoul yanks out of Kobra’s grasp and leaps for Party, holding on with a death grip and not letting go. Party thrashes and swears and shakes but Ghoul is steadfast and unwavering. It’s horribly, sickeningly, painfully clear what Party was trying to do.

-

The next night, Ghoul pretends to sleep. He feels the old mattress dip and a rustling before a click and a thick heaving swallow. 

He leaps up and tackles Party to the ground, grasping for his own gun held fast in Party’s grip. He wrestles it out, not before a stray beam he narrowly ducks shoots a hole through the wall.

Party instantly stops fighting and lets the green gun drop, his full weight falling into Ghoul’s arms, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, oh my God, I’m sorry!” He sobs, taking a heaving stuttering breath. 

‘Shhhh,” Ghoul holds Party’s shuddering body close to his own and cries into that gross greasy hair, the image of Party’s hunched, sobbing form huddled into a dark corner, chin raised, eyes shut tight, forehead lined, teeth clenched, muzzle of Ghoul’s ray gun pressed against the underside of his exposed chin, barrel pressed against his tightened throat burned into his head. 

-

After that, they all take shifts watching Party, keeping eyes on him at all times. He fights it, at first upset at being doted over and the others losing sleep over him but eventually comes to accept it himself, knowing deep down, he needed the surveillance. He didn’t trust himself. 

-

Some weeks later, as Ghoul snuggles closer into Party’s embrace, light snores ruffling his hair, he smiles. They’re going to be ok. Gerard’s going to be ok.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did toy with the idea of party actually killing himself but i decided not to. i might add a second chapter to this with that alternate ending, maybe idk
> 
> thanks for reading!! i love you & hope ur having a great summer


	2. “Bad” Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Goodbye, baby. Goodbye, Gee. I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY. 
> 
> Before I initially posted this over the summer, I was trying to figure out how I wanted the ending to pan out and I had it down between a “good” one and a “bad” one. Essentially, Party stays alive and Party kills himself. This could’ve gone down a multitude of ways, (such as doing some dumb shit fighting dracs or pissing some other zonerunner off to the point they wanna ghost his ass etc) but i tried to convey that Party was at his weakest during the nights (curling into ghoul, crying, apologizing constantly...) so for a basic bit of clarification, Party wakes up and he just fucking can’t and it’s all too much and I don’t want to describe it all because id like to stay alive long enough to post this shit, Jesus (I’m not going to do anything stupid, don’t worry) but it’s all too much for him so he kisses ghoul and goes to hug jet and Kobra and does the deed.. :( I’m making myself sad. Christ, this has gone on long enough! Enjoy!

****He wakes up to Kobra’s horrified heart wrenching scream and bolts down the hall. Ghoul stops suddenly, socked feet scuffing to a halt. He stares. Kobra drops to his knees and cries out, loud and ugly. Ghoul stares. Jet hurries out, ray gun held tight in his grip, and as he takes in the sight before him, whispers, “No. . .”

Ghoul stares, rigid and tight, at the softly swinging body of Party Poison, hung from the ceiling by his belt. His cherry red hair hangs down over the discolored too-pale skin of his face. Tears flame and stab and burn in the corners of Ghoul’s eyes and he roughly scrubs his eyes with the sleeve of his ratty shirt covered forearm. 

Pushing himself into motion, Ghoul rights the chair by Party’s dangling feet and climbs up, standing on the tips of his toes. Face to face, Ghoul bites down on his lip until he tastes blood. 

Forcing himself to look away, Ghoul reaches up to yank the belt down. The body falls into Jet’s arms with a soft thump. Ghoul jumps down, pointedly keeping his line of vision directly down. He wraps himself around Kobra, stroking his hair and holding him to his rapidly thrumming chest. He whispers empty words of reassurance, knowing that they don’t mean anything. They won’t change anything. They’re there only to provide the temporary comfort the kid needs. 

The words do nothing for Ghoul. He’s not crying. He will later. 

-

He avoids looking at the body until they’re just about to burn it. They don't want to risk anything getting inside or taking him. Jet holds the unlit match in one hand and raises the matchbox in his other. It shakes as he raises it. 

Ghoul looks at Party’s shrouded form lying atop the sand in the middle of the open desert. It was risky to do it like this, they know. But they couldn’t bare to have the constant reminder glaring them in the face every time they were home, if they’d taken care of this out back.

Home. Would the diner every really feel like home again? Ghoul didn’t think so. His heart ached and throbbed and seared. He had thought Party was okay, things had seemed okay. Had he done something wrong? Why would Party do this to all of them? To Ghoul? What had he done wrong?

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Kobra and Jet surround him with their familiar bodies and scents, holding him close, crying tears of their own. 

Exposed and stripped raw, Ghoul lets out screams of anguish and heartbroken sobs. He cries out for the embrace of a body that he’ll never again touch, that he’ll never again see smile, that he’ll never again see at all. 

They’re horribly defenseless and weak right now and they all know it. They don’t care. It seems as if life is already over with the gaping absence of Party Poison looming over their shoulders and engulfing every bit of joy or sense of self-preservation they have left. Ghoul wants to die. He wants to fucking die. He craves it. It craves him. 

“Don't fucking say that, don't you fucking dare say that! Do you think that’s what he would've wanted?” Ghoul hadn't realized he was still screaming until Kobra screams back. He sobs into Ghoul’s hair. “You motherfucking goddamned idiot, we fucking loved him too and I know not like you did, okay? He’s my fucking brother and so are you! Don't let me lose another!” 

Ghoul sobs into Jet’s chest, fingers squeezing and gripping in against the back of Kobra’s jacket. 

-

Jet strikes the match against its box and throws it down. The dirty sheet ignites quickly, flames licking up as the fire gains momentum flares. 

Tight in the arms of Jet and Kobra, with tears streaking down his dirty cheeks and irritating his swollen red eyes, Ghoul’s whispers are lost beneath the roar of the flames. “Goodbye, baby. Goodbye, Gee. I love you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If u guys want I’ll do more in this “universe” (idk)   
> Like maybe what I talked about up above, party’s final moments and thoughts and stuff  
> Or like  
> After he’s gone and how the others move on and function without him there   
> Or you can suggest something! I’m open to whatever, doesn’t have to be danger days or even mcr  
> I’m into tons of fandoms, leave me a comment and we’ll talk! Xoxo love you (sorry I’m really chatty today lol)


End file.
